M Excerpts from The Real Don Juan Triumphant
by BleedingHeartConservative
Summary: An excerpt from my longer humor fic for those who want to know all Erik told Daroga about his tryst with Christine. This Erik would kiss and tell. And does! Posted separately to preserve "T" rating of original. Erik is MORE than "a bit" of a Don Juan.
1. Perdendo

**Author's Note:** If you have not been reading my long humor-fic _The Real Don Juan Triumphant_ this piece really won't make any sense at all, but feel free to read it anyway. Still, if you want it to make sense, I suggest you read that FIRST and then come here after you complete chapter 43... But then, no one ever listens to me!

**Warnings:** I still think it's humor more than it's hot and steamy, but there's a bit of both. Erik is a clumsy lug and Christine is just too saccharine to be real. Enjoy.

**Disclaimer:** If don't own POTO, but if I did, it would have been way more fun.

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She did not faint as she had that first night, no. In two weeks time she had become as accustomed to me as to a favorite chair by the hearth. Except that she had not touched me prior. But now she fell into me with all the force one might in falling with exhaustion into a beloved chaise, and she embraced me. She embraced me full length, clinging to me with an urgency unexpected and unprepared for. My nerves were on fire. I tingled. I _burned_, but a smoldering fire, not a blaze; a smoldering fire that does far more damage than leaping flames.

I was all atremble as she led me—yes, she remembered the way well and by now I was a mass of quivering flesh and rattling bones, and I could do nothing but blindly follow her like a little child—to the house on the lake.

We went inside. Oh, how can I tell you? _We went inside._ I leaned upon my chair heavily for my legs were as willowy as reeds and my breath desperately lacking. The poor girl... she probably thought I was going to die. She helped me into the chair, made me tea, hovered about wringing her hands while I trembled and shook. And then...

How did it happen? It happened, and yet I cannot say how. I suppose it was when I reached for the teacup, my hand shaking so hard that the china clattered noisily and tea threatened to spill. No, no, it _did _spill. _That_ is how it happened. Ah yes. How it comes back to me now. Am I boring you with the details? No? You are certain? Yes, so I spilled my tea like the dottering old man I might as well have been, all over the saucer and the table and _my own hand_. It scarcely felt warm, so aflame was I.

She tossed a nearby napkin onto the table to sop up the mess, but she didn't spend any time over it. She withdrew a little lace handkerchief. Ah, you remember the one, you have seen it before? She withdrew suddenly a little lace handkerchief. I cannot find the words within me to explain why the lace edges of that handkerchief caused my heart to pound harder still. I had no time to contemplate it, either, for in an instant she withdrew it and an instant later she took my hand in hers and gently wiped from my still-trembling fingers the remains of the tea I had spilled.

She was so gentle, Daroga, as though she believed I might break. And break I might have--did, indeed, but that came later. When the little laces edges of the handkerchief were stained with tea, she placed it aside and looked up at me without releasing my hand. She looked deep into my eyes—mind you, I am still Red Death at this point, had not even managed to take off the ridiculous hat—she looked deep into my eyes and caressed my hand.

"Poor Erik," she said again. "Poor Erik, why do you tremble so?"

And I did not lie when I told her it was her touch.

The poor innocent! She withdrew her hands and _apologized_.

But no, no, _no_, I told her. No, please, anything but that. And she looked very confused but placed her hand carefully upon mine once again, and without meaning to I sighed so heavily that she repeated the sound and _squeezed _my hand.

"Oh, Christine," I told her. I was feeling so passionate by this point that my words were a convoluted mess, but they were a romantic convoluted mess, a melodramatic conglomeration of lust and rapture that I said nonsense such as I—even I!—have never said to a woman before, but it moved her. Those _ridiculous _words moved her and when she lowered her lids and blinked, a tear like a pearl slide down her ivory cheek. What did I tell her, what did I moan to her in my unrestrained longing? "Oh, Christine," I said, "Do not take your hand from mine, for while it is true that it is your touch which makes me tremble, I can feel in the depths of my soul that it is also your touch will help me never to tremble again."

Two more tears fell then, without need of blinking her lovely lashes. She kept her eyes locked upon mine as her tears slid down, unbidden, unnoticed by her at first, until they reached her lips. She gave an embarrassed laugh then and brushed them away with her free hand. I tugged on her hand a little and then she came and knelt closer to me. She came nearer and brushed her fingertips across my face, and I shook still more. Can you imagine how tiring it is to shudder so hard? I was surely exhausted by this point, so fatigued that if I closed my eyes I might have fallen asleep there in that chair, suffering as I was. But I did not close my eyes just then. Even so, Christine must have sensed my weariness for she suggested that it was very late and perhaps I ought to be going to bed.

Then she became quite ashamed and quite upset, for she had momentarily forgotten the coffin, you see. She became hysterical with tears and in an effort to calm her I stood and lifted her and pressed her to myself in a tight embrace. Somehow, momentarily, I stood solidly and she drew back her head to look me in the eyes. Then she said, "It is peculiar, Erik, that you are correct, that my touch eases your trembling." She said it in a tone like awe.

I could not respond—every response was too forthright, too carnal for her unsullied ears, and so I said nothing but only stroked a lock of her hair with the tips of my fingers. "Oh, then touch me, touch me, _touch me_," I longed to say. "Touch me here, and here... and—" Oh, but I would not say such things to her! Not yet! Instead my left hand fingered her golden curls while my right was tight around her waist and then all my self-control was gone for a moment.

My hand, Daroga, my right hand, of its own volition slipped downward, no longer curled around her waist but slipping lower still to caress the curves of her hips through the shapeless garment, squeezing the fleshy portions of her posterior until she gasped. My left, meanwhile, no longer content to twirled her tresses, suddenly followed suit and found itself cupped about her bosom, also squeezing.

Such mundane preparatory tasks we do regularly, certainly, without truly enjoying them, without thinking even, at times. But oh! The glory in those things, which henceforth, I shall desperately avoid rushing through if at all possible. Have you focused, really paid attention, to the firmness of your lover's breasts and buttocks? Or to texture of her skin? The exact color of her lips? The scent of her perfume, the warmth of her breath, the--No, don't nod at me that way, no, no, you haven't. You _think_ you have, but you have _not_. Such things one notices only in passing until one's senses have been heightened, as mine have been. You can't know, but I--I--I!

I must confess that my right hand did not linger long on the coarse black fabric covering her quivering thigh and buttocks, though. No, it found it's way around to the front, fingertips feeling, searching for the place between her legs. I heard her breathing quicken. I knew I was falling desperately out of character, that _her _Erik could not possibly be so bold, but my hands are my own, and my hands know exactly how to find that secret forbidden place....

Meanwhile that plain, shapeless black cloak of the domino had suddenly become the most seductive piece of clothing ever sewn by any Parisian tailor. I fell to my knees to find the hem and when I did immediately began to inch it upward, my fingers hesitating at the bone of her ankle for a long time while I pondered the perfect shape of her ankle and allowed my lips to graze it slightly. Then, suddenly emboldened, my fingers darted upward only to hesitate again at the knee, as though each joint reminded poor Erik to keep his place, but the space in between encouraged the poor soul. I tugged the garment upward, ever upward revealing shapely white legs. My hands strayed above her knees, but only halfway there, she gasped and I released her.

I _knew_ that I had moved too confidently, that if I continued to do so I would be caught and revealed for what I truly am, and so I turned from her and put my face in my hands and I did not have to will the trembling to return of an instant.

She wrapped herself around me then, from the back of me, the front of her pressing all her body gloriously against the back of me, except that recall I am still Red Death and my robe is quite large and heavy and when one is ablaze with forbidden desire, perhaps one is a bit clumsy. She became somehow entangled in it, though she did not realize this at first.

Meanwhile, she pressed herself to me and apologized profusely and saying that she did not understand what I had done to her. But no! That is not how she meant to say it, for I had done nothing to her, and yet something had been done to her, because of me, but no, please forgive her, for she hadn't meant it to sound that way and what she meant was that she was wondering if perhaps I should send for a doctor because she was feeling strangely and had never felt quite this way before and when one had such feelings, oughtn't one send for a doctor?

Well, I, for one, knew exactly to what feeling she referred, Daroga, but of course, _Erik_ is a man who has lived alone forever as far as Christine knows, and so should _Erik _know such things? And I told her that whatever it was had certainly happened to me as well and perhaps we both ought to lie down immediately. At that she blushed thoroughly for she seemed to suddenly understand, but in that instant as she attempted to take a step away from me, the heel of her shoe caught in Red Death's cloak and she plunged for the ground most directly.

A moment earlier she had been trying to step away from me in embarrassed mortification, but in the instant in which she felt herself falling she seized me with both hands. But she was falling rapidly, and I was none to steady on my own feet and I toppled gracelessly upon her so heavily that I am amazed that no bodily harm came to her.

So there I was upon her, my chest against her breast, her hips directly beneath mine and stimulating me unknowingly as she writhed. My intellect was lost and I was merely a body thrusting against another, entirely unaware of the layers of fabric that prevented any meaningful discourse from occurring. I opened my eyes for but an instant and hers were wide, terrified, and locked upon me. I realized my terrible mistake in judgment and leapt off her and to my feet so suddenly I was lightheaded, all my blood quite surely being contained _below_ my waist rather than above where it belongs. I swooned and fell, narrowly missing an injury by falling against the chair instead of onto the floor. My mortification tempered my lust, though almost imperceptibly.

"Dear Erik," Christine said suddenly, and I startled. She had not called me _dear _before, so perhaps my mistake was not as great as I suspected! Her cheeks were heavily flushed and her breath had become a pant, though whether she merely feared for both our health or had almost _enjoyed _out short jaunt on the floor I cannot say for her words could have been taken in either sense: "Let us get you to bed at once."

Oh yes. Yes, please. _Get Erik to bed._ He thought you would never ask. But all at once I suppose she remembered the coffin again, for she looked from the music room door to the Louis-Philippe room door. Then suddenly she said with decision "You shall stay in the bedroom this night, Erik. You will feel far better for it in the morning."

I could scarcely moan my response. Oh, innocent Erik should have protested, yes, yes... but he was so exhausted! And amorous, of course. Can it not be expected that poor unhappy Erik would savor some small hope that pitying Christine just might offer some relief?

I was so overcome with the feeling I that felt certain those pitiable red trousers would simply burst apart, so I let her lead me—lead me! the words I choose! I hung upon her and she half-_carried_ me to the room where I eased myself upon the bed. She swept the cavalier's hat from my head and smoothed my hair as she put me upon the pillow, and I held onto her, feigning—scarcely having to feign it, though, you know—a delirium. She remained a long time, staring at me and then she extinguished the lamp and made as though to leave. To _leave_! Oh, I could not bear to go without, not tonight, not after all I had endured! Had I been thinking clearly, I might have slipped out the back entrance as soon as she departed and returned to the party, which surely still raged as I did and where, undoubtedly I would have encountered any number of women as you and I did when we were together earlier. But I was not thinking clearly. I was not. I was _Erik_ in that moment, and I was desperate. I did the only thing I could think to do. I cried out to her to relight the lamp, and when she did so, I told her I was afraid to be alone in the dark.

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**Shameless Begging:** You didn't think I'd beg less over here because it's "mature" did you? That's the content of the piece, not the emotional age of the author. I'm as immature as ever, and I still can't LIVE without reviews!! ::dramatic flourish and sigh::


	2. In Rilievo

**Author's Note:** Greetings, all! I apologize for the lack of a chapter on Sunday. Again, life has been far too busy for comfort. One of my girls had to move out finally, though, after she became physically aggressive. My two remaining children are quiet and respectful at home, though they certainly have their issues. The one who is now gone was the one who stirred up the most trouble, so I think I've got my writing time back now. Whatever the case, here's a chapter tonight for the "M" crowd. Ah... as regards M... let me explain. I went by the ratings, which said that "T" meant 13. You see, previously, I had been under the impression that TEEN meant thirteen and also fourTEEN and fifTEEN and so forth all the way up to sevenTEEN and that "M" meant adult, and therefore eighteen at least. When I really thought about the fact that T stuff has to be okay for a 13 year old, and then I thought about what I think 13 year olds really should be reading/watching/listening to, I decided to go with M. I know a lot of folks on FFN publish stuff as "M" which is actually what the FFN ratings calls "MA" which means it's "adult" (read "explicit"). FFN claims they don't accept MA stories, but they actually do; they just don't have the staff to audit all the stories. That being said, if this isn't M enough, any of you who write M feel free to take this concept, run with it and post it. Call it something like "My take on the M scenes from the REAL DJT" and I'll read it and review it. We can have fun with it. I just... can't write anything M-er than this because after 13 years in public education I'm just too rated G. Oh well. LOL.

**Disclaimer:** Erik was not permanently injured in any way during this piece, I promise. And neither I nor Christine owns him. Pity. :sigh:

**Humor:** It's all situational and ironic. I think you'll be amused, though I doubt this is spit-your-beer-all-over-your-monitor funny. Then again, some of you are easily amused, so be careful anyway.

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I was afraid! So very, very afraid. I made up some additional nonsense about my painful past and added to it that I was so very afraid of this strange pain about which I could not speak in her presence but which I believed in my heart she could ease. I could see, easily, when I spoke of it she felt it too, but of course she would not speak the words, either, and so we stared at each other uncomfortably in the dim light and stroked each others hair and each others hands and both thought obsessively over body parts neither could see or name. Then at last I informed her that the cloak was beneath me and pulling dreadfully against my throat, and she bent down but could not reach me, and then had to place one knee upon the edge of the mattress to unclasp my cloak and then I, with a clumsy turn 'accidentally' knocked this knee from beneath her and she fell upon me quite gracelessly, and I embraced her, and before she could draw away, I kissed her.

I kissed her first as a little child kisses its mother, an innocent closed lipped kiss, and then we drew our heads apart so that we could stare, amazed at what we had just done, into one another eyes. And I moaned almost involuntarily and let my tortured hips rock a little and she knew what I felt but would not name and at last she revealed that though her body and soul were innocent, she was not entirely without knowledge.

"This isn't illness, Erik," she began, trying without success to keep her voice even and steady. "I have heard of this from some of the girls. It is not at all what I expected. When they talked of it, it sounded terrible and wrong." She hesitated. "But with you, perhaps it is not." She spoke softly while she looked at me from the edges of her long-lashed and downcast eyes. "Don't you understand what's happening?"

I feigned helplessness and shook my head, adjusting my trousers while trying to look like I was trying not to let her see that I was adjusting them and not really even needing to try to wear a look of agony.

"Oh, poor innocent Erik!" she said, and I nearly _died_ of irony! "Poor innocent Erik, there is nothing we can do!" and she looked horribly upset. Now surely she knew exactly what was to be done, as could be ascertained a moment later when she did not stop my roving hands, but of course as you know she is a good girl and she could never suggest such a thing.

I clutched at her and I said, "Oh, poor Christine! Shall we die of it?" and she poor girl took my hand and kissed it and I—I—to be honest, Daroga, I cannot tell you when it was that I fully lost control of myself. I began at least—I think that I began—Shall I just tell you and have it over with? See how even telling you puts me in such a state? Never shall I do this to myself again, Daroga, such did it disturb my mind! So I began at least to pretend to lose control at this point. I asked her "Shall we die of it?" and I clutched her in fear and drew her close. Her skin was moist with perspiration as mine had long been, and her voice had a little tremor to it that was so adorably endearing as she tried to reassure me with her word and her little hands.

"No, no, Erik," she tried to say, but I found her mouth with mine, met her lips innocently for an instant and then plunged my tongue deep inside.

She tried to draw away at that, but my arms, my arms, too, were beyond my control (so I thought I feigned) and would not release her, and though her mouth tried so desperately to say "No, Erik" around my probing tongue, her hands clutched my back and said yes Erik, yes Erik, yes Erik with her fingertips. A moment later I was seated and the black domino was somehow thrown upward and my hand was upon her quivering thigh and I asked her—Oh, I asked her Daroga, "Is this where it hurts, my Christine? Your legs tremble so!"

And the darling—the innocent darling closed her eyes in torment and moaned, "No, Erik, higher!" and up I went, "Here, my love? Here, darling?" Clumsy, innocent Erik! "A muscle cramp perhaps. Perhaps Erik can massage it for you. Higher yet you say my darling! Oh! Oh, Christine! I can't—Oh I can't—!" But I was. I _did_. Erik's trembling fingers found that place that they have in the past known so well, a place from which he inappropriately and mindlessly banished himself, a place like coming home, like returning to paradise after the fall, and she was Eve, and she moaned and met my hand.

Erik drew away at that. "Erik has hurt his Christine!" I cried. How I managed _draw away_ I cannot say for by this time, by this time my trousers constricted me so that every heartbeat sent a pain shuddering through my nether region, but somehow I managed to withdraw for one last refusal. I had to be sure, you understand—I could not risk that she did not want—

But there could be no doubt, then, no.

Christine Daaé could not say those words to me, or to any man for that matter. She could not say, "Do not stop" or "I wish to continue" or any such words, no. But she took my hand. She took my hand and threw back her head and pulled me into her.

I was still Red Death, she still a black domino having lots its mask. She tore at my cape, released the clasp that still near-choked me and threw the whole velvet mess to the floor. She arched her back and moaned. And when I hesitated she whispered for me to help her and I did. I eased her robes upward and off. Yes, she let me disrobe her entirely with the lights on--not at all what I had expected from good little Christine! I the place that ached yet again, more easily this time, for innocent Erik is a swift learner, and I massaged her throbbing body until she arched her back and scrunched up her face and held her breath and whimpered and groaned and then suddenly panted and gasped—Erik hesitated, fearing for her health, of course—and the girl cried out in desperation. Erik rubbed his aching darling until again she gasped. Wheezed. Gasped once more. Sighed forcefully with relief. Quivered. Sighed again. Shuddered severely. Embraced him.

I stroked her tumbled curls with my sticky hand, but I was as yet untouched myself. My hands left her body to rake at my own in desperation, and when she did not reach for me, I reached for myself as though I had no other choice.

She pulled me near, in gratitude, in pity, perhaps in genuine lust, I do not know, but she pulled me near and murmured something soft and sweet, something like, "Dear Erik, I wonder if I might discover how such a thing is done to a man."

I was a lunatic by this point, unable to form coherent sentences, babbling things like, "Oh, please... try anything... Oh, it hurts... too tight... my... trousers..." and it was in this way that I finally got her to peel the wretched things off.

I have never seen myself in such a state. I would not have thought it possible. And as this was the poor darling's first look at a male body, I daresay if she knew exactly what was to come, it should have outright terrified her, but instead she stared in virginal wonder, a mystified expression upon her face as she reached out and touched me, recoiled when my member leapt at her touch, then touched once again.

She explored as I had explored, delicately, careful not to hurt poor innocent Erik who might shatter at a woman's touch. I was putty in her hands; I am sure I was delirious a good portion of the time. When I closed my eyes my blood swirled in purple and red and when I opened them Christine was a hazy golden image, her hands a cool soothing balm against a raging conflagration of throbbing heat.

But truly, she had no idea, and I had to show her. I let my hands rove to her, rolling my eyes into their sockets as though my mind were gone and instinct alone drove me. I pulled her upon me once again. Yes, _upon me_. I know, so scandalous, but of course poor Erik is ignorant of all such things and knows not which end is up, top from bottom and so forth. I figured it would do her good in the end anyway, for if she were to marry some boy as innocent as herself, it is something they would never think to try without my guidance.

Oh, but it was glorious, Daroga. By now her golden hair was flaming about her shoulders like wildfire and the black gown had been pulled up and pulled down and become entirely useless, so I tore it off and cast it away. How lovely she was in the dim light of the bedside lamp, her smooth white skin, her golden hair, her expression spreading from innocent curiosity to wide-eyed amazement.

I touched her _everywhere_. and she responded like no woman before her. You have had, surely, women who enjoy our encounters and women who enjoy the after effects of said, or women who most enjoy what leads up to it and endure the act only because it is part and parcel of the package. No doubt you have had eager, willing women as well, and no doubt you know those who like this type of touch or that due to experience, but this was something different entirely. With no experience whatever at all, she matured of an instant.

The room became warmer and warmer still so that at last I had the excuse I needed to tear off what little remained of my constricting costume. I pitched it over her head and she didn't seem to notice. She stared at me in the lamplight, her eyes bright and glassy, her lips curling up at the edges as though I were some... some... excuse me, I can't help myself! It's simply amusing! Had there been a mirror in the room I would have gotten up to observe whether I had transformed into some type of Herculean specimen. Poor girl. Surely at the Opera she's seen men before, no? Well, what of it? She was, dare I say, impressed?

Well. Ahem. But I'll continue, yes? Have you had a _virgin _before, Daroga? A real virgin? Oh, I _thought_ I had. I thought I had indeed. No, perhaps virgin is not the right word. This was no terrified young girl going through with the act solely to please a man, no. This was a woman on a journey of _discovery_. She responded to my touch willingly as I coaxed her hips downward, and she hesitated only a moment at the pain. Yes, only a moment. Then she took the full length of me easily, aggressively, her spare smooth breasts bouncing, her golden mane billowing like a lion's or that of some mythical temptress. She devoured me. I clung to her wildly and found myself suddenly turned over and then turned about with no regard for the headboard whatever so that we might as well have been anywhere.

No, no. Don't let my long narrative fool you. Poor Erik lasted but an instant, yes, I am not ashamed to say. Don't laugh, Daroga. You couldn't have held on any longer. But she didn't notice. She didn't notice and went on. It was--well, I don't need to tell you that with enough effort it can happen twice. Twice! But still she would not release me. She pinned me beneath her knees and writhed about until _she_ was satisfied and Erik.... poor Erik was entirely wasted.

When at last it was finished and I held her to me—yes, I held her close and stroked her hair... I _usually _embrace them afterward, but waiting had heightened and increased everything. I must have clung to her as a drowning sailor clings to a life raft—I wept. I have no idea how it happened. I didn't intend it, and I wasn't unhappy at all. I was happy, yes, but not happy enough to shed tears, no. Are there such things as tears of _relief_? Well, I cannot say, but all a sudden, from nowhere, without even warning enough to turn from her, I broke into noisy sobs that I could not control. I wept in her arms like a little child. For no reason. For no earthly reason I can comprehend. And I was fine inside. But I couldn't tell her, the force of tho

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se sobs was so intense.

Oh, poor Christine. She cradled my head and held me and rocked me and spoke my name softly and kissed me. What could she have thought of me then? Oh, but thank heavens it was Christine! Had it been little Marie-Élise, or one of the Lefebre girls, or Carlotta or Giry or her daughter or Anna Maria or Charlotte—well, had it been _anyone_ who has known me before she would have thought I'd fallen to madness.

I am always quite _normal_ afterwards, Daroga. Quite _myself_, I mean, as I am any other time. _Always_. Granted, one does a certain amount of cuddling regardless, yes. The ladies crave it, and it is quite comfortable and all, but never have I ever—look at me! I shall fall to pieces in telling this to you! A moment. Give me just a moment, please. Now then. There. Here I am again. But I was saying I am so fortunate it was Christine. Any ordinary ballet rat—even if she did not know me previously—would have thought I was either witless or pathetic or both. Only such a pure innocent as Christine could have reacted as she did. I fell apart entirely and there she was, her bare white arms desperately trying to hold me together.

I didn't cry _to_ her exactly. I was scarcely able to be aware of her presence, but there she was and she thought—I am sure she thought it was somehow her fault. At the very least she was there and seemed to think it was her responsibility to do something and so she stayed with me the night and tended to me as though I were an invalid long after I had pulled myself together once again.

So what could I say to her in the morning? Well, thank you very much Mademoiselle. Have a wonderful life and I'll see you around? So I said the only thing that made sense under the circumstances for the tale I had told: "I don't want you to go."

Well, then she promised me that if I would let her go she would always return, that if I always allowed her freedom, she would return to me regularly whenever I wished or whenever she was able. Well, you can understand how that would not do at all, of course, and so I told her instead that she had given me all the happiness in the world and that if I died that very day it would be as though I had lived a lifetime filled with joy and she should not be sad for my sake for even an instant. And I sent her away.

The rest you know, for you were there when she returned and she has continued to return, quite regularly now, ever since.

Ah, yes. I know what you're going to ask. Is it always so breathtaking? Ah, Daroga, I tell you.... _every_ time with Christine Daae is as exhausting as the first.

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**Shameless Begging:** Just as Christine Daae can't get enough of Erik, I simply can't get enough of your reviews. Review me, review me, review me, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!


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